Jack was not too familiar with the machinations of share dealings, but one question seemed too obvious not to be asked.
“Why?”
There was a pause.
“I have no idea, Mr. Spratt. I can only think that he wanted Spongg shares to recover and to then sell them at a profit.”
“How much could they be worth?”
Pewter smiled. “At the all-time high in the sixties, Humpty’s share would have been worth almost three hundred million. But the possibility of that, given the downward trend of Spongg’s fortunes, is infinitesimally small. He might as well have smeared the cash with gravy and pushed the bills into the lions’ enclosure at the zoo.”
Jack thought for a moment. “Did Mr. Dumpty seem naive in money matters?”
Pewter looked quite shocked. “Oh, no. He was quite astute. He had been playing the stock market for a lot longer than I’ve known him, although I understood he had a bit of trouble in Splotvia. He floated a company to exploit mineral rights, but a left-wing government took power and nationalized the land. Badly burned.”
Pewter paused for a moment and played absently with a pencil from his desk.
“So what was he up to?” asked Jack.
“I have no idea,” replied the stockbroker. “He became obsessed with Spongg’s about eighteen months ago. I never found out why. Spongg’s will go under; it’s only a question of time. Unless,” he added, “there was another plan.”
“Such as?” returned Jack, craning forward and lowering his voice.
Mr. Pewter fixed him with a steely gaze. “Winsum and Loosum Pharmaceuticals would have paid a lot of money to get hold of the shares. They’ve been trying to take over Spongg’s for years. They might pay him a good return on his investment.”
“How much?”
“Today? Ten million. Fifteen if he got Grundy in a generous mood. But I must say if that was his plan, I’m surprised he left it so long. Spongg’s demise is pretty much inevitable, and Winsum and Loosum can just wait until it goes and then pick up the pieces.”
“Solomon Grundy was at the Spongg benefit, wasn’t he?”
“He never misses them, Inspector. Along with Randolph Spongg and the Quangle-Wangle, he’s Reading’s most generous philanthropist. Did you know that he personally paid forty million pounds to keep the Sacred Gonga in Reading when the museum threatened to sell it?”
“Of course,” said Jack, “everyone knows. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pewter. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Delighted to be of service, Inspector. I am always here if you need to talk again.”
Mr. Pewter saw them to the door, and they walked back to the Allegro.
“You can drive,” said Jack, tossing the car keys to Mary.
She got in and looked around the spartan controls dubiously.
“Seventies design classic,” said Jack. “The Allegro was a lot better than people give it credit for. The clutch is on the way out, so it bites high, and don’t be too aggressive with the turn signal—I broke it the other day, and I’m still awaiting a replacement.”
She turned the key, and the little engine burst into life. Jack was right, the clutch did bite high, but aside from that it drove very well—and with a surprisingly comfortable ride, too.
“Hydrogas suspension,” commented Jack when Mary asked. “Best thing about it.”
“So,” said Mary as they made their way back towards the city center, “Humpty was buying shares in a company that is heading rapidly downhill—why do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he wanted a staff discount on corn plasters. Perhaps he liked Randolph. Perhaps he’d gone mad. Speaking of which, let’s see if we can get any sense out of Dr. Quatt. But not quite yet. Take a right here and pull up outside Argos. I said I’d drop in and check out the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center—we’re on duty there Saturday.”
11. The Sacred Gonga
SACRED GONGA UPGRADED
Hearts rose at the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center yesterday when the World Council for Venerated Objects upgraded the much-revered Splotvian artifact to “most sacred” status, effective immediately. “It’s a tremendous honor,” said Professor Hardiman, whose grandfather smuggled the Sacred Gonga out of war-torn Splotvia in 1876, “and just in time for the Jellyman’s dedication on Saturday.” A spokesman from the WCVO pointed out that the “most” prefix was purely ceremonial, and the twelfth-century relic could still be referred to as “the Sacred Gonga” without disrespect.
—From the Reading Mercury, April 6, 2004
They pulled up at the curb, and Mary switched off the engine. It rattled on for a bit before it finally died.
“Must get that seen to.”
They climbed out of the car and looked at the glass-and-steel structure built on Forbury Gardens. If it had been anything other than the dreary day it was, the sun’s rays would doubtless have cascaded from the many-faceted glazed roof and given an effect as magical and wondrous as the treasure the building was built to house. As it was, the only thing cascading from anywhere was the rainwater running into the drains from the downpipes.
“Ugly as sin if you ask me,” said Jack.
“Beautiful piece of architecture,” said Mary, precisely at the same time. “We agree to differ,” she added. “A fine building should always court controversy. Isn’t that traffic warden staring at you?”
“Oh, shit,” said Jack. “Keep moving and pretend you haven’t seen her.”
But it was too late. The traffic warden, a woman about Jack’s age but whom the years had not blessed as kindly as, say, Lola Vavoom, trotted up to him. And she didn’t look very happy.
“Jack!” she said with an overblown sense of outrage. “You never call me!”
“Hello, Agatha,” said Jack with as much politeness as he could muster. “You’re looking well.”
“Don’t try and sweet-talk me, worm. Think you can just toss me aside like a… like a… like a used thing that needs tossing aside?”
“Steady on, Agatha.”
Mary stared curiously at the uniformed bundle of hot indignation—the overdone mascara and lipstick looked more like warpaint.
“Don’t you ‘steady on’ me, Jack. You don’t call, you don’t write—”
“Agatha, it’s over. It’s been over for a long, long time.”
“Maybe for you,” she said angrily. “What about if I came and told your wife, Sarah, about it? What would she say, huh?”
Jack sighed. “Sarah is… no longer in the picture. I remarried—”
“Remarried?” she asked in a shocked tone. “When?”